The Blue Bird
by FredGeorgeWazlib
Summary: Kit is finally promoted at Arkham Asylum after a few "mishaps" held her back. It's time for her first session with a criminal inmate, but by no means her first encounter with one. And, unfortunately, certainly not her last...
1. The Promotion

**Author's Note: **

**So, I have been so excited about writing this story. Seriously, I have had it planned out in my head for nearly a year now. I love Batman, and I think I have managed to pretty tastefully include everyone at some point or another. **

**Key players are the Joker, Batman, the Riddler, Scarecrow, and my OC, but plenty more will be involved, trust me!**

**Enjoy, my fellow Batfreaks. :)**

* * *

><p>"Congratulations on your promotion."<p>

Kit began ripping the tape off of a box full of office supplies. A lesser person would have pointed out that it was no thanks to him. After all, it was his fault the promotion had twice slipped through her fingers, nearly ending her career as a psychologist in the process.

The clicking of locks fell on her ears, sounding rather sinister given the situation, but she went about her business quietly, placing a framed photo of her and her mother on the corner of her new desk. She couldn't bring herself to look at him in as he turned to her, his slender fingers searching the contents of the pockets of his costume. Her eyes slowly moved to his face; he was wearing his mask, disfigured and crudely stitched.

"I brought you a present," he murmured, his voice muffled by the burlap. Carefully, he placed a jar in front of her on the desk. Vaguely aware of the guards shouting outside, Kit watched the yellow and black patterned spider inside weaving a zigzag web from one side to the other.

Just like everything else she had given him, how fitting the little arachnid would come back to haunt her.

* * *

><p>Kit had become a full-time staff member at Arkham Asylum only one year prior after being given her first truly troubled inmate – Humphrey Dumphler.<p>

That was back when Harleen – now calling herself Harley – was still a doctor there, before she had run off with the Joker.

The two of them had been very good friends.

The incident with the spider had begun like this:

Kit and Harley had slid past a pair of guards, one of them Aaron Cash, as they walked side by side down the hallways of Arkham on their way back from lunch. Kit watched them out of the corner of her eyes until they turned down a corridor and disappeared from sight.

"He ask you out yet?"

Kit flushed horribly and faced forward, ignoring the tell-tale sparkle in Harley's eyes.

"…Anyways…thanks, Harley, for taking the case," she lowered her voice cautiously, her grip on her sack lunch tightening, "It's just…I couldn't."

"Hey, no problem!" the blonde had replied cheerfully, adjusting her round glasses, which were really only for show. She had told Kit she only wore them to make her look more intelligent.

"It's not too much trouble, is it?"

"Nah, I told you, it's fine," Harley assured her, observing some of the inmates in their cells as they walked. A particular one, to be exact, but Kit hadn't been paying much attention that day.

"Dr. Arkham still giving you trouble?" Harley added.

"A little," she admitted.

Dr. Jeremiah Arkham had been the current head of Arkham Asylum, then. For two long years Kit had been trying to move forward as a psychologist under him. There had been an…incident…with her first patient that had proved getting ahead in the asylum difficult, until, finally, Dr. Arkham had offered her what would have been her first criminal inmate…and she had to turn it down. What was worse, she hadn't even given him a real reason because, well…

It was personal.

But that was when Kit had felt a tickle on her shoulder. Unconcerned, she had shrugged it off, but when she felt it again, she turned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was.

_Spider_.

Shouting, a startled Kit furiously brushed off the ugly little black thing. She shook and shook until she was absolutely sure it was nowhere on her person.

By then a couple of the inmates were watching with amusement, particularly the Joker, who giggled madly from his own little corner of insanity. Kit turned to Harley, who had smiled broadly and dangled a cheap rubber spider in front of her face.

"I can't believe it!" she laughed, "He was right…I wonder how he knew?"

"How _who_ knew?" Kit demanded, trying to shake the creepy-crawly feeling from her skin. She batted the spider out of her face distractedly.

"The Scarecrow."

* * *

><p>Kit had gone home from work that evening in a funny mood. Pulling up to the rickety building she had lived in since college, she had gone instantly into the house and come out with a mason jar and a ladder.<p>

It hadn't been much longer before she was interrupted in her strange endeavor.

"Whatcha doin', Miss Whitaker?"

Kit had wobbled, trying to keep her balance on the top rung of the old wooden ladder, the glass jar in one hand and the lid in the other.

Kendall Taylor had plopped her backpack down near the bushes and hurried up the porch steps to steady the ladder, a look of curiosity on her round face. Brushing a strand of her brown hair out of her eyes, Kit exhaled in relief.

"Thank you, Kendall," she said, looking down at the girl, "How was school?"

Kit lived in the house with Kendall and her mother, Jill Taylor, who needed the rent money to keep up with the bills. They weren't terribly behind, but every little bit counted when you lived in this part of Gotham City.

Kendall looked up to where Kit was reaching.

"You tryin' to catch that spider?" she asked, and, feeling a bit self-conscious, Kit had glanced down at the lid in her hands. She had even gone through the trouble to poke holes on the top.

"What do you need a spider for?" Kendall continued, staring Kit down with a child's persistence.

"Oh…for work…things."

It wasn't a total lie.

"Oh." Kendall fell into a thoughtful silence. Then, "Brodie Gibbons next door brought in a big old spider last month for show and tell. It had an egg sac on its back. I bet he could catch it."

Kit smiled.

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?"

And the next day, much to his displeasure, Jonathan Crane had gotten up out of bed in his cramped, little cell and walked straight into a spider web…

* * *

><p>Now Kit stood in her office – her brand new office that represented all that she had worked for all of those years – and wondered what disaster was this, that was about to turn her life upside down again.<p>

Before Kit could respond to the little "present", the Scarecrow gripped her wrist firmly.

Many mistook his actions for violent, but Kit knew better. They were deliberate, measured.

"Jon…," her voice was starting to waver, "Take off the mask."

Ignoring her, he dug around some more before pulling out a syringe full of orange liquid – his formula for fear gas.

Kit could still remember her first experience with the Scarecrow's fear gas.

Fresh out of Gotham University, but not quite a full-time staff member at Arkham Asylum, she had been given a patient with a mild case of schizophrenia to start out with. A "trial run" that had somehow gone horribly, horribly wrong.

A small dose of the stuff was all it took to make her skin itch and crawl, to make the blood rush to her face and roar in her ears. What little fumes still clung to her unfortunate patient were enough to make her feel the way she had felt when she was eight years old, standing at the door of an unbearably white room with sweaty little palms and a dry throat.

All alone in a big world.

She wondered if that was how her patient had felt before she killed herself…

"Jon…Take. It. Off."

She whispered it, but she had all the fierceness of the Batman in her eyes.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled the mask off. Underneath it, his expression was almost cheeky. Pulling the lid of the syringe off with is teeth, he asked her, "Are you afraid?"

"If you were going to use it on me, you would have done it by now."

"That was the plan," he stated shortly, flicking the syringe and squinting at the bubbling liquid inside.

She wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"You really should wear your glasses, you know?" she chided softly. Kit could hear the guards banging on the door outside, shouting threats at the man in front of her. They would be too late, she knew.

"You know you aren't going to make it out of here," she murmured, bringing her face closer to his.

"Hardly the objective," he responded, unconcerned.

"Then why?"

His brow furrowed as he mumbled something. Kit couldn't quite catch all of it. "…so hard to understand…_him, _but you…the same way…fear gas."

"What?"

He pushed one of her sleeves up and began to wipe a patch of her skin with an alcohol swab. The air felt cool against the spot, and goosebumps began to spread up and down her arm.

The Scarecrow ran his fingers along them slowly.

"And then…," he whispered, "there's the most obvious reason."

Kit met his eyes briefly before he jabbed the needle into her arm, pricking her skin.

_Fear._

* * *

><p>Everything was fuzzy. Everything was dark.<p>

She was disoriented. Alone. Terrified.

She caught sight of a green light on the other side of what slightly resembled a room. Rain was pouring in from the complete lack of walls. Newspapers blew in from the street.

Chilled, Kit started walking toward the light. She felt sluggish, like she couldn't move correctly. Squinting, she saw the light was a digital clock, flashing urgently.

2:17

Spooked, she pulled back and fell over a pile of ratty sweaters that had not been there before. This place was like a landfill for the remains of her life that had been broken beyond repair. She pushed herself up quickly and started to run from it, not knowing what this place was, but knowing she had to get out of there.

The street was endless. No matter how far she went, she never reached an end. There were no turns to take and all of the buildings that lined the sidewalks seemed strangely blank. Like people without faces.

The rain dripped off of her hair. She was soaked. Her lab coat clung to her, heavy, slowing her down. That was when she heard the barking.

For the first time, she realized she was being chased. Swallowing, she saw the dogs behind her, eyes glowing, growling, snarling, rabid, shapeless in the way that they clung to the shadows. A car sped suddenly out of the darkness, skidding down the slick streets within an inch of her before careening off the edge of the road.

She was shellshocked by now, but somehow she managed to run faster, shedding her coat and flinging it in the direction of the dogs. They were gaining. Kit picked up a rusty pipe that reflected the green light from the alarm clocks.

2:17

Turning to face the vicious things, she swung her pipe desperately to ward them off. Slowly, she began to back away, but her breathing was growing ragged. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd last. Slipping on a wet newspaper, she found herself falling…falling far too long. Lightning struck.

Everything went white. Suddenly she felt much shorter. She looked at her hands, now the hands of a child. She used them to shield her eyes from the blinding light. Maybe she was dead.

Her mouth was unbelievably dry and her eyes tired. A hall materialized, all white paint and doors. Hundreds of doors, one right after the other. Her own voice shouting at her to open them.

Kit's mind was murky, but she was beginning to remember something. This wasn't a dream. Not a nightmare, either.

She wiped her stinging eyes and realized for the first time that she was crying. Familiar feelings began to creep back as she recognized these doors. Their numbers faded, the paint slightly chipped.

They were terrifying, all of those doors, but she had opened them all, hadn't she? Maybe not all at once, but she had, so she knew she could do it again. She remembered playing this game as a girl. How she would stare at that chipping paint until she knew she could bear what was on the other side.

Swallowing her fear, Kit stepped forward, yanked open a door, and flung herself forward with all the determination she could muster.

* * *

><p>Kit awoke in a sweat, gasping. The floor was cold against her back, even with her lab coat on. Wait…hadn't she taken that off?<p>

As her mind strained to put the pieces together, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the side of her head. She must have fallen and hit the floor. Maybe she'd have a concussion.

She could just make out the sound of two people talking as her head cleared up. Using her desk – her new desk – to pick herself up, she peered over the top of it and saw the Scarecrow and a newcomer – The Batman.

"Stop…!"

"…that's right, Batman…We _all _fear something."

Carefully Kit slid the box of office supplies off of her desk and dug through it until she found her desk lamp. Then, lowering herself back behind the desk, she began to crawl towards them.

"But what is it that _paralyzes _you, little bat?" Scarecrow jeered, his mask back on his face as he jabbed the man repeatedly. Batman fended him off blindly, his other hand on his head and his face screwed up in pain. Kit wondered what he was seeing. He seemed to be fighting it, but he was struggling. She had to act fast.

She crept up behind the Scarecrow, careful not to make a sound. Then, cautiously, Kit drew herself up to her full height. The Scarecrow was a tall man, but fortunately he was far too occupied to notice her. She took a deep breath, then –

_CRASH_

The Scarecrow's lanky body hit the floor. Kit dropped to her knees beside him as the force of the blow caused the blood to rush to her head. Apparently, the gas was still effecting her a little. She paused for moment, taking in deep, calming breaths.

Her eyes drifted over to the Batman, who was still hunched over, clutching his head and breathing heavy. He was lost in his own mind, the way she had been only minutes before. She could only imagine the horrors that clung to someone like him. The things he must have seen…

Still, there wasn't much she could do to help him. Instead, Kit scooted over to Scarecrow and checked his pulse. She'd never forgive herself if she caused him any permanent damage. Carefully, she slid off his mask and leaned closer until she could feel his breath on her cheek.

He was going to be okay. Folding his mask, she left it neatly beside him. As much as she hated to admit it…it was a part of him now.

Getting to her feet slowly, Kit started towards the door. Surely someone outside would know how to help Batman. She could still hear the guards in a frenzy outside, and wondered if they knew he was in there with her.

But just as she was reaching up to undo the locks, a hand covered hers, stopping her in her tracks…

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>**:**

**I do not own any of the Batman characters. **

**Thanks for reading! If you can, please review. It will be much appreciated. **


	2. A New Puzzle

**Jolau Kergh – **Yes, Riddler/OC fics would be my life if there were more of them, bwahaha!

**Super-Nerd-yay – **Thank you, I will try to be super speedy. I'm on a roll!

**Author's Note:** Yeah, sorry for changing the title all up on you guys, but I suddenly remembered that I decided months ago that this is what it should be called. Sorry about that! I know "The Blue Bird" isn't nearly as attractive as "Unbeknownst", but it will serve its purpose in the end…

* * *

><p><em>Getting to her feet slowly, Kit started towards the door. Surely someone outside would know how to help Batman. She could still hear the guards in a frenzy and wondered if they knew he was in there with her.<em>

_But just as she was reaching up to undo the locks, a hand covered hers, stopping her in her tracks…_

Kit whirled violently, expecting to see the Scarecrow, but instead came face to face with a tired-looking Batman.

He backed up, coughing slightly.

"We need to talk," he said shortly, nothing in his voice betraying the ordeal he just went through. Pulling her desk chair towards them, he gestured for her to sit.

"You're Dr. Whitaker?" he asked, wasting no time in crossing the room to check the doors. As Kit took her seat, he glanced through the opaque glass to the guards outside.

They would not be disturbed.

When Kit didn't respond, Batman turned to look at her and caught her staring at the Scarecrow intently.

"…Dr. Whitaker?"

"Oh, yes. Kit. Kit Whitaker," Kit answered finally, tearing her gaze from the man on the floor. She fidgeted in the chair uncomfortably as if it were painful for her to be sitting.

Stooping, Batman picked up the shattered remains of the Scarecrow's syringe and examined what little of the formula still clung to it.

"How much did he give you?"

"No more than a dose," Kit answered, promptly now, but her face clouded with concern, "…How much did he give you?"

Ignoring the question, the Batman straightened up, reeling slightly from the effects of the formula. Kit shot out of her chair, happy to have an excuse to leave it.

"You should sit," she insisted.

"I'm fine."

"But – "

"Why was he here?" he asked her suddenly. He swiveled his head up, meeting her eyes with his piercing gaze.

Kit felt her walls come up on instinct.

"I-I don't know," she answered – perhaps a little too quickly.

It wasn't a lie.

Kit's eyes flickered back to the Scarecrow.

No, not a complete lie.

", the Scarecrow broke out of his cell not even half an hour ago. He didn't try to escape. He left countless employees untouched, including his own doctor. He stopped for nothing on the way to this office. My question is _why you?_"

Kit avoided his gaze. Something was off about the way she was looking around the room, Batman thought, as if she were making an effort to look at anything that wasn't the Scarecrow.

"You ask me like you think I should know," she responded at last, her lips pressing into a thin line.

But Batman pulled no punches.

"Eight months ago, Dr. Arkham offered you the Scarecrow as a patient," he stated matter-of-factly.

Kit stiffened, her grey eyes taking on a hard edge.

"…What about it?"

"You turned it down. Why?"

"What did the file say?" she asked in retaliation, "Since you've obviously read it."

"You cited personal reasons."

"Then, I believe, Batman, you already have your answer."

"…"

The Batman never once took his eyes off her, though neither of them said another word.

An uncomfortable silence settled across the room before the Scarecrow groaned and turned in his blacked-out state.

Scooting what was left of the broken syringe out of his path with her foot, Kit went to retrieve a dust pan as the Batman turned to leave.

"…I'm sorry."

Batman stopped, turning at the doctor's words.

She didn't look at him as she busied herself with the mess, but her body language, he noted, was much more open.

"I…I know you won't get any answers from him, but…I honestly don't know."

Tossing the bits of glass into the rubbish bin and dusting off her hands, she finally turned to look at him.

"He's a scientist, Batman," she answered clearly, nodding in his direction, "He does it to see what happens next, to see the results, to see how people are going to react."

When he didn't respond, she dropped her head, her brown hair hanging in a curtain around her face, hiding her expression.

"It's always a test with him," she added finally, her voice quiet, "…always."

"But a test for who?" he asked.

Kit looked up in alarm.

"Well, for you, surely?" she insisted, a look of panic on her face.

But only silence answered her as the Batman stared hard at the unconscious Scarecrow. Taking a deep breath, Kit cleared her throat.

"He killed one of my patients," she explained at last, her eyes, too, falling to the Scarecrow, "Well, not directly, but he…he gave her the fear gas, and…well, that's why—"

She trailed off uneasily, but the Batman only nodded.

He understood.

Placing a hand on her shoulder before he left, he murmured a quick 'Thank you' and then was gone before she could even respond.

So ended Kit's first encounter with the Batman.

The moment Kit walked out of the office, flashes of light burst across her eyes, blinding her painfully. She lifted a hand up to shield her eyes from the attack, wondering what was going on.

_Cameras?_

"Goddammit, Johnson, didn't I tell you to get those reporters out of here?"

_Reporters?_

"Get back, all of you!"

"Give the doctor some space!"

"Aaron?" Kit squinted in the direction of the familiar voice. A hand took hold of hers and pulled her to the side, away from the cameras.

"Are you okay?" Aaron asked, sitting her down on a nearby desk.

"What's going on?" she asked, pushing his hand off gently as he fussed over her, "How did the press get here so quickly?"

Anxiety crossed her features, and Aaron stopped rushing for a moment to push a stray lock behind her ear.

"Don't worry about it, Kit, just focus on me and the doctor for a second, okay?"

A man in a lab coat joined them at Aaron's side and slipped a little flashlight out of his pocket, shining it in Kit's eyes.

She turned her head away quickly and stood up.

Before Aaron could protest, the doctor put a hand on his arm.

"It looks like she's fully responsive. No need to fuss over her."

If anything, Kit was more worried about the negative press the asylum would receive in this week's headlines. Just as she had gotten her first criminal patient, wouldn't you know it…

"Kit—" Aaron began as he slipped up beside her.

"How did the press get here so quickly?" Kit interrupted him, repeating her question from earlier.

Aaron sighed.

He knew that look.

"Sharp was holding a Q&A session about the new plans for security when the alarm went off."

While listening, Kit began delegating to nurses on standby. _A Q&A session about the new security? Well, wasn't that just perfect timing?_

"Brilliant," Kit murmured under her breath before stopping a nurse rushing by, "He may have a concussion…and there was glass – lots of it. Try to –"

Insane laughter interrupted her as the Joker pressed his manic face to the bars of his cell.

"Well, well, handling yourself well after tripping on the ol' fear gas, aren't you, Doc? It's good stuff, isn't it?"

Kit stared him down, her expression unmoving.

"I'll bet Bats was impressed."

"The Batman?" asked a reporter, aiming the question at the Joker.

"The Bat was here?"

As if that were what the Joker needed – more attention.

Surprised inquiries came from all over, but Aaron and his men quickly brought the mob of reporters back in line.

Kit, on the other hand, stepped closer to the cell.

"…How did you know he was here?" she asked quietly, leaning closer to the bars.

She kept her voice low to discourage any eavesdroppers, ignorant of the fact that the next inmate over was watching her intently, keen to learn more about his newest doctor.

In other words…_a new puzzle._

The Joker smiled broadly, placing a hand over his heart.

"The Bat? Didn't you know? We have a bond, him and I," he cackled gleefully, "Soul mates, you might say…Speaking of which, how are things between you and Captain Hook over there?"

Kit waved a hand dismissively in his direction and turned back to the doctors.

It was useless trying to get a straight answer from the Joker. No wonder the Batman grilled her so hard for answers. As if he'd ever piece anything together from _this_ motley crew.

…People didn't appreciate him enough.

Trying to ignore the Joker's offended squawks and ensure the Scarecrow's health amidst the calls of the press was starting to wear on _her_, as well. Aaron could see the stress on her face.

"Kit," he murmured quietly, placing a hand at her back, "Maybe you should go home for the day, huh?"

"No, I promised Humphrey I'd say good-bye today," she insisted, slipping her hand into her pocket to feel for the little present she had brought for him.

The idea of visiting him seemed to relax her, even just a little.

Humphrey…She wouldn't be his doctor anymore.

"Surely it can wait until tomorrow," Aaron reasoned, trying to keep her attention.

"But I promised. It might upset him—"

"Kit, if it upsets him so much, maybe he still needs you as his doctor, don't you think?"

Kit just frowned and shook her head. She and Aaron had been dating for a few months now, but still they never seemed to see eye to eye when it came to the patients.

He had never been able to find much empathy for them – not since the accident.

Swallowing the urge to point out that even "_normal_" people got upset when somebody stood them up, Kit kissed him swiftly on the cheek and made her way through the crowd of people.

"I'll see you at home, Aaron."

* * *

><p>Taking the little eraser gleefully from Kit's hands, Humphrey instantly set to taking it apart on the little desk the asylum provided. It wasn't nearly big enough for a person Humphrey's size, but it was the best their funds could (or <em>would<em>) provide.

She had brought him the little puzzle eraser, which could be taken apart and put back together again, because of his penchant for wanting to fix things.

Though his mind was stunted, leaving him almost child-like even at his age, he excelled at the workings of machines. It was her understanding that, before the incident, he could fix any manner of things. Toy cars, radios, refrigerators…

And now puzzle erasers.

"Humphrey," Kit brought up gently, standing beside him at the desk, "Do you remember what we talked about last Wednesday?"

Humphrey screwed up his face while he worked, his tongue poking out thoughtfully. It was far too simple a puzzle, Kit realized, but it was the only thing she could think of that the warden would allow.

After Dr. Jeremiah Arkham went insane only months ago, the city had seen fit to install Quincy Sharp as his replacement. Unlike Dr. Arkham, he wasn't a psychologist and, Kit thought, certainly more suited for Blackgate.

Obsessed with security, Sharp ran Arkham like a jail, opting to neglect the treatment aspect of the facility. If anything, the incident today would only add more reason for him to continue in that direction.

"Oh goodness, that was fast."

Kit was astonished.

"I did good?"

"Yes, better than I did my first time," Kit assured Humphrey.

It wasn't a lie.

"But Humphrey," Kit began again, tentatively, "Can you remember what I told you last Wednesday? About my promotion?"

"You told me you got a promotion, and I told you 'Congratulations!'" he enthused with a large grin.

A pang dug at Kit's heart.

"Yes, that was very sweet of you."

Humphrey's grandmother abused him from little on up. All those years, until finally one day, obsessed with all things broken, Humphrey wondered why his grandmother didn't work like other little old ladies…

Humphrey beamed at Kit's praise, but then grew quiet.

"I'm not going to be your patient anymore," he said softly, remembering.

"That's right. I have a new patient now who needs my help more than you…since you've improved so much."

Humphrey took his grandmother apart that day, only months ago. He took her apart and tried to put her back together again.

'_Almost what we try to do here.' _Kit thought bitterly.

"But I'm going to visit you, Humphrey, remember?" Kit reminded him gently as the guards stepped inside to take her to her next appointment.

"Yeah…" Humphrey repeated, pacified, "Yeah…You're going to visit me."

"That's right."

"When?" he asked suddenly, clutching his new eraser.

"In about a week, Humphrey," Kit promised, heading out the door, "in about a week."

* * *

><p>As if the day couldn't get any better, Kit passed Gretchen on her way out of the door to Humphrey's cell, and earned a scalding look from the brittle old woman.<p>

Everything Kit did warranted disapproval as far as Gretchen Akers was concerned.

One of the oldest doctors here, Gretchen was as traditionalist as Sharp in her views, forming a quick bond between warden and head doctor.

She had been a favorite under Dr. Arkham, as well.

It was a miracle, really, that Kit had been given a criminal patient at all, considering. Even now, Gretchen was only here to see if Kit's work with Humphrey (or "Humpty-Dumpty" as the other inmates called him) was satisfactory.

"Kit," Gretchen nodded, speaking in her heavily accented voice.

"Hello, Gretchen," Kit replied courteously.

At least Humphrey wouldn't be going to her, Kit thought. No, Gretchen was given only the toughest nuts to crack – nuts like the Joker.

Humphrey really had improved greatly since he was brought in, so, rather than being sent back to intensive treatment, he would be given to an intern fresh out of Gotham University – one who would monitor only the most basic things: his moods, his behavior, his habits.

"I heard you had a run-in with the Scarecrow today," Gretchen remarked – almost casually – as she passed by, "Perhaps you should be more careful about how you present yourself to the patients."

"Gretchen," Kit began, coolly, "I have never initiated contact with the Scarecrow. My patients and I are always professional."

"Of course. Just like Harley, no?" she countered scathingly.

The disdain in her voice was obvious as she turned the corner, disappearing from Kit's sight. Silently fuming, Kit turned and wrenched open the door of her office – the one that she still hadn't finished unpacking.

At least they had cleaned up the unconscious Scarecrow from her floor while she was visiting Humphrey.

Storming in, she stopped short at the sight of the man on the other side of her desk.

He was examining the contents of her desk curiously in his spindly fingers.

Kit's face must have looked particularly stormy because he froze abruptly in his observation of the little spider in its jar and regarded her appraisingly.

Recovering quickly, she smiled and shut the door swiftly behind her, leaving the guards outside.

She had almost forgotten her new patient.

"Oh?" she chided, taking her seat on the side opposite from him, "Didn't think teacher would show?"

Smirking, the Riddler breathed twice on the glass jar before rubbing it on his standard issue jumpsuit and placing it on the corner of her desk like a shiny new apple. Taking his seat, he clasped his hands in front of him innocently.

Then, cheekily:

"I could recite my ABC's if you want…"

Kit's smile broadened.

'_A new puzzle.'_

**Disclaimer:** Do not own any of the Batman characters, which include Harley, Aaron, Quincy, Humphrey, the Riddler, Joker, Scarecrow, and Killer Croc. Thank you for reading!

Please R & R.


	3. War Paint

**Author's Note:** Ahmygosh, super long one this time, every one. I just have a stopping point in my head, and that is where I _must _stop. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"<em>Oh? Didn't think teacher would show?"<em>

_Smirking, the Riddler breathed twice on the glass jar before rubbing it on his standard issue jumpsuit and placing it on the corner of her desk like a shiny new apple. Taking his seat, he clasped his hands in front of him innocently._

_Then, cheekily:_

"_I could recite my ABC's if you want…"_

_Kit's smile broadened._

'_A new puzzle.'_

* * *

><p>"That won't be necessary…um…," Kit paused. Slipping a file out of a still-unpacked box, she flipped it open and regarded it carefully, "…I'm sorry, should I call you '<em>Mr<em>. Riddler' or '_The _Riddler'?"

The man before her smirked, the corner of his mouth travelling further up the left side of his face.

"The 'the' is optional," he answered curtly, two dimples showing on either side of his smile.

"So just Riddler, then?"

Steepling his fingers – a mannerism which caught Kit off guard in its familiarity – the Riddler peered over them at her, his eyes twinkling.

"I was under the impression that doctors aren't supposed to encourage the use of our aliases," he said challengingly.

"…Oh, I don't know," Kit countered after a moment's thought, "I've been asking Dr. Young for two years now to call me Kit, and she still insists on calling me Dr. Whitaker. I'd say it's a little unreasonable, wouldn't you?"

The Riddler only shrugged, drawing a pattern on her desk with a spindly finger – a question mark.

These kinds of sessions were always a bit difficult for him. He felt like a child again, sitting outside of the principal's office because he had been acting out in some way or another – like calling the teacher a moron, perhaps.

If he had gotten anything from his father, it was a fondness for that word. 'Moron' was practically a term of endearment in the Nashton household.

"Besides," Kit continued, taking a seat, now, across from him, "the more you name something, the less power it has over you. Isn't that how the saying goes?"

"…I suppose," the Riddler agreed, looking slightly more interested in the turn of conversation, "Although the ancient Greeks believed in the strength of their names. When a warrior died, the shamans would paint their name all over the body – like a magic charm to protect the bearer in the afterlife."

Kit studied him thoughtfully.

She had talked to a janitor who, only weeks before, had been cleaning out the Riddler's cell with a bucket of sudsy water and a scrub brush. Apparently, he had a habit of scrawling riddles on the wall and plastering the ceiling with bright green question marks.

Kit could just picture the man, tall and lanky, tiptoeing on his bed to paint his ceiling into a Sistine Chapel-esque masterpiece – a masterpiece full of questions rather than answers – trying, in doing so, to reaffirm the puzzle that was his life.

"Really?" Kit uttered curiously, biting the lid off of a pen and scribbling something into his file, "…I'd never heard of that."

The Riddler didn't answer, but leaned forward sneakily, peering through his glasses and down his crooked nose at what she was writing. When she caught him at it, she gave him a small smile and pushed it towards him, inviting him to read it.

Feigning indifference, he propped his chin in his hands and regarded her with thoughtful blue eyes.

"So, if you're so skeptical about the properties of names, Doctor, am I to assume that you have so little faith in your own power?"

For a moment, Kit looked astonished, but then she fell into a puzzling silence, her gaze dropping to the little jar with the spider inside of it – the present from the Scarecrow.

"More like…" she began quietly, "I believe my power lies…in not letting others have power over me."

Frowning, the Riddler sat back and chewed this over for a moment.

He had, of course, seen the incident earlier today from his cell next to the Joker's.

Why they had decided to put him next to that insane clown was beyond him, but it did provide certain benefits. If something happened in the asylum, the Joker was always the first to know about it.

I mean, honestly, the man attracted disasters like roadkill attracted buzzards.

'_And they don't smell much different, either,_' the Riddler thought, wrinkling his nose at the idea of the clown's practically nonexistent sense of personal hygiene.

"Well, that's all very well, Doctor…" he responded at last, lowering his voice and inclining his head towards her, "But riddle me _this_: what if the person you're powerless against is yourself?"

He posed the question softly, and Kit had to turn her head so she could hear him properly.

It wasn't a question so much as it was a confession – wrapped up in the bright green ribbon of a question mark.

"…Your file says you checked _yourself_ into the asylum this time," she said carefully, "…Why?"

Kit's eyes followed him attentively as he removed his glasses and rubbed them on the horrid orange fabric of his jumpsuit. He stared through the lenses at her casually, his hands shook ever so slightly.

Taking a deep breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

_This was difficult for him_.

To have to admit that his mind, that well-oiled machine that he had so carefully maintained all of these years, was defective, delusional, _defunct._

Many people, in Kit's experience, seemed to forget how frighteningly exposing it was to be in a position like the inmates' of Arkham Asylum.

How could they possibly fathom just how difficult it was to put your heart, your innermost thoughts, and your feelings all on the line – especially when it was because someone suspected there was something not quite right about you?

Even Kit had things, deep down inside of her, that she never wanted anyone to know. They were her memories to have, and not for anyone else to try and understand.

But just as she was about to relieve the Riddler of his discomfort, he met her eyes with his own, glinting defiantly despite the vulnerability of his expression.

"I _tried_ not to leave a riddle," he said quietly, clenching his glasses to his sweaty palms, "but…_I couldn't do it_."

* * *

><p>Kit plopped her keys into the dish on the hall table of Aaron's apartment, sniffing as a delicious smell greeted her at the door along with her boyfriend.<p>

And immediately she hated herself for questioning if all of it was a little too perfect – something she did often, and not just since she started having the Riddler as a patient.

Dysfunction was what she was accustomed to, and she was beginning to wonder if she would ever get used to this kind of normal life.

"I'm home," she said, shutting the door behind her.

It was completely unnecessary, but Kit found she rarely knew how to talk with people in these everyday situations – even one as simple as coming home.

Aaron set the wooden spoon in his hand down and put his arms around her, careful not to get her with his hook as he pulled her into a small kiss.

"Welcome home," he said seriously, leaning back just enough to get a good look at her, "You didn't have any more trouble today, did you?"

She followed him into the kitchen where he returned to stirring a pot on the stove.

"No," Kit assured him, sitting at the table behind him, "everything went fine."

"Promise?" Aaron asked, turning to look at her suspiciously.

_He knew her too well…and, yet, not at all._

"Promise," she said quietly, running her finger over the checkered pattern of the tablecloth.

"At any rate," he said, carrying the steaming concoction over and setting it on top of a potholder, "Commissioner Gordon stopped by at Arkham while you were in with your patient. He's going to need to ask you a few questions."

"Oh," Kit responded, a little surprised. Sometimes she forgot that Batman didn't operate on the same level as the police force – or the law, for that matter.

It was interesting, the idea of the Batman, and sometimes, when her mind wondered, she couldn't help but think about who he was – what could possibly drive a person to don a mask and fight crime by night?

"I invited them to dinner next Wednesday – Jim and Barbara," Aaron continued, taking a seat beside her, "They could use a night away from it all, considering."

"Why?" Kit asked, surprised, as she poured herself a bowl of chili, "What happened?"

Aaron turned his solemn gaze to the window as the sound of sirens passed by outside and said, "His brother, Roger Gordon? He and his wife were killed in a car crash about a hundred miles west of here. Jim agreed to take in their daughter."

"Their daughter?" Kit paused, her food lying in front of her, forgotten.

"A teenager – I believe they said she was thirteen."

"Thirteen..."

Kit's own father had died in a car crash when she was only ten years old, and she had one of the most famous inmates of Arkham Asylum to thank for it.

Pulling out into an intersection in front of a high-speed car chase, her dad was blindsided by the criminals just after they had robbed a bank. He was dead on the spot.

"Actually," Aaron continued, standing and going to the sink to fetch a glass, "Jim was wondering if you would be willing to stop by and talk to the girl sometime – see if she's coping all right."

"Oh…yes, of course," Kit responded, remembering, suddenly, the bowl of chili in front of her. She took a spoonful slowly, her face thoughtful.

"I think he's worried, you know? Seeing how hard it was for Wayne when he was a kid. He didn't do so well those first few years after what happened to Thomas and Martha."

"No," she agreed softly, "how could he?"

To see your parents taken down in such a violent way – how horrifying it must have been.

_Although, _Kit thought quietly, _much kinder than watching their minds deteriorate until they don't even recognize you anymore._

With downcast eyes, Kit cleared her throat and attempted to change the subject, though she couldn't quite mask the shakiness in her voice, and asked, "How did Humphrey do with the new intern today? Did he do okay?"

For a moment, Aaron didn't even seem to remember who Humphrey was. "Oh, your patient?" he said, shrugging, "I didn't hear. But next week we're getting a sample of the new security prototypes for _Croc._"

He said the name with a severe distaste, his eyes glancing down reflexively at the hook attached to his left arm – a permanent memory of the hand he had lost to Killer Croc.

Killer Croc was an extremely touchy matter for Aaron. Not only had he lost a hand, but a girlfriend as well, to one of Arkham's most dangerous inmates.

Not to mention, the crocodile-esque man still had it out for the security guard. _Just like the book,_ Kit thought of "Peter Pan", _the crocodile got a taste for Hook and he never rested until he got more._

Shuddering at the very idea of it, Kit came back to the conversation just as Aaron was finishing.

"…think Sharp will do okay. I, for one, like the changes he's been making. Did you hear he had Scarecrow put in solitary confinement?"

Kit's head flew up.

"What?" she demanded quickly, standing up from the table.

"Hmph, serves him right if you ask me."

"Aaron, how long did they keep him in there?" she asked, frowning, worry clearly etched onto her face.

"How long?" he reiterated, crossing his arms, "He's still in there."

"_What?_"

"Kit," Aaron said, exasperated, following her as she strode out of the kitchen and into the hallway, "you can't _seriously _be concerned about him, can you?"

Grabbing her keys, Kit began slipping on her coat and didn't answer.

"After what happened today, you should be _happy _he's getting some sort of punishment for it! People can't just get away with these sorts of things! What if he had hurt you – I mean, _really _hurt you?"

Kit opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but then thought better of it.

"I'll be home late," she said instead, turning to the door, and, as she closed it behind her, "Thanks for dinner, Aaron."

* * *

><p>After flashing her identification at the night watch, Kit made her way to her office briskly. She stopped by just long enough to trip over the still-unpacked boxes lying on the floor and to grab the latest issue of '<em>The Journal of Experimental Psychology<em>' before making her way back out into the darkened hall.

She was on her way up the stairs when she heard a clatter come from one of the cells, followed by an abrupt curse.

Curiously, she pulled up beside the Riddler's cell, catching him in the act of painting the walls and ceiling again. Green paint was splattered all around, dripping onto the tiles from the carefully crafted question marks.

"Hello."

Startled, the lanky man swiveled, wobbling dangerously on his wooden stool.

When he saw it was Kit, he steadied himself and straightened his jumpsuit haughtily.

"Doctor," he acknowledged politely. His eyes glinted, daring her to reprimand him for his latest masterpiece, but she just smiled.

"You work fast," she said, crouching near the bars so she could get the full view, "How long did that take you?"

"A few hours," the Riddler replied, shrugging. Then, a bit disappointedly, he asked, "You're not going to lecture me?"

Kit laughed and stood again, twisting the psychology journal in her hands.

"I just stopped by to say hello," she said, "I'm sure you'll get plenty of that from the warden, besides."

Then, frowning suddenly, she remembered why she was here.

"Anyways, I had better—"

"Oh, _do you mind_?" an irate, mocking voice came from the cell to the right, interrupting Kit mid-sentence, "Some of us are trying to _sleep_ over here."

The Riddler rolled his eyes and stepped down from his perch, shoving the stool neatly under his desk. He looked more than a little annoyed by the interruption.

Kit said nothing as the Joker put his smiling face to the bars, leering at her curiously.

"Well, look who it is!" he exclaimed, feigning surprise, "What's up, Doc?"

"Excuse me," the Riddler interjected silkily before Kit could get a word in edgewise,"Dr. Whitaker and I were _trying_ to have a conversation."

"_Ooo_, pardon me, I'm sure," the Joker cooed, making rude gestures at the wall of the Riddler's cell.

Doing her best to ignore him, Kit turned back to the Riddler, standing alone in the middle of his cell, surrounded by painted green question marks on all sides.

His words from their session earlier came back to her suddenly.

'_The shamans would paint their name all over the body – like a magic charm…'_

'_So what sort of a magic charm was this?'_ Kit wondered, _'That focused so hard on the questions in life, rather than the answers?'_

"Oh, how cute," the Joker simpered, unable to stand the silence that had fallen between them, "the two of you are already so in sync you can have a conversation without even talking."

Edward cast an irritated glance in the Joker's direction.

"And what's this, Dr. Whitaker?" the insane clown continued with a grin, "Is that _green _nail polish I see?"

Kit self-consciously stuck her hands into the pockets of her coat, crumpling the journal unceremoniously into one of them.

She always painted her nails.

Humphrey had loved it when, at the start of each week, she had come in with a new bright color on them.

And there was another patient – though not one of her own – who had loved it just as much. One she had visited every day when she was a child…

"Don't hide them, Doc," the Joker teased, waggling his fingers at her through the bars, "I've never seen such a lovely shade of vomit soup green!"

"How very eloquent," the Riddler muttered flatly.

Then:

"Vomit soup green?" a bemused voice came from behind them.

Bruce Wayne, one of the Asylum's many benefactors, strode up casually beside Kit, eyeing the Joker skeptically.

"The inmates are always more colorful with their adjectives on green bean casserole day," Kit explained.

"Wow, you're good, Doc," the Joker said sarcastically, making a face, "Ten years in this place, and you're the only one who's made the connection."

Bruce just raised an eyebrow and turned to Kit.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing down the hallway with his arm.

"Of course," Kit agreed, eyeing the Joker distastefully.

The two began to make their way past the criminal inmates, but Kit paused. She turned to say 'good night' to the Riddler, and was shocked to find a look of immense dislike on his face, directed venomously at the billionaire playboy.

* * *

><p>"So what brings you here, Mr. Wayne?" Kit inquired, walking with him through the eerie hallways of the Asylum.<p>

The staff at Arkham were always to be accommodating to Mr. Wayne when he visited, considering the large amount of money he donated to them each year.

"Business, as usual," the man answered with a sigh, then, flashing a smile in her direction, said, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, Doctor…?"

"Whitaker. Kit Whitaker."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, "You're the one who had the run-in with the Scarecrow!"

The man couldn't have looked more impressed.

"Oh…yes," Kit replied, embarrassed. She wondered how long she'd be hearing about the little incident over the course of the next few weeks.

"What a day, huh?" Bruce continued, dashing as always, "The way I hear it, you were far braver than I would have been."

"It was nothing," she insisted, flushing a light shade of pink, "If Batman hadn't shown up, I…"

She trailed off as Bruce waved over to the night watch, accompanied now by a kid of no more than thirteen years of age. When he spotted Bruce, his face lit up, and he ran over, wearing a suit that matched the billionaire's.

"Dick," Bruce said, putting an arm around his shoulder, "Say hello to Doctor Whitaker."

"Hullo," the boy said with a grin, rocking back and forth on his heels. His smile was easygoing and sincere, and far less stiff than Mr. Wayne's, whose smile always seemed a little forced to Kit.

"Hello," she replied kindly, shaking the boy's hand. Then, turning to Bruce, she asked, "Is he yours?"

Dick glanced up at the man out of the corner of his eye, as if curious of the response, himself.

"Yes," Bruce responded, patting the boy's shoulder, "Adopted."

The kid's smile widened proudly, as if hearing those words would never cease to amaze him.

"Anyways," the man continued, giving another little wave to the security guards, "It's well past this one's bedtime…It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Whitaker. I'm sure I'll see you at the benefit in a few months?"

"Oh, yes," Kit replied distractedly, "I have something to take care of, as well…"

"Wow, do they have you working overtime?" the man asked, making a face.

"…You could say that."

* * *

><p>Only minutes later, Bruce left Dick in the car – despite the boy's protests – and made his way back into the asylum, donning the cape and cowl.<p>

He had taken a sudden interest in Dr. Whitaker – an interest not entirely without suspicion. Something about her manner and her ease with the patients concerned him, and now that she was here, after hours, he was going to find out what she was up to.

Slipping past the guards with ease, Batman began running through everything he knew about the doctor, which didn't consist of much else than her file.

Her first patient had been a schizophrenic – and no doubt a would-be success story that ended horribly wrong. The patient had progressed rapidly in the first few months of treatment until, abruptly, she ended her own life.

At least, that's what the police had said; Batman was beginning to suspect otherwise.

After that little incident, the doctor had been given the smallest of cases: eating disorders, obsessive compulsive disorders. For a short while she had even switched over to Gotham General, providing behavioral therapy for children with autism and ADHD.

In other words, they made sure she had no criminal inmates.

However, someone must have given her a break somewhere because soon after she was assigned to Humphrey Dumpler (a.k.a. Humpty Dumpty).

The name stirred up something in the back of his mind. If he remembered correctly (and he always did), Humphrey had been responsible for various accidents around the town, taking apart various machines – cars, trains, clocks – and reassembling them in less-than-perfect condition with the help of only a few library books.

He had eventually tracked him down, asking him why he had, amongst various books on mechanics, checked out "Grey's Anatomy" of all things.

The rest could be imagined from there, but the outcome ultimately involved Humpty being confined to Arkham Asylum and a very old woman, hacked to pieces and sewn back up with bootlace.

As far as Batman had heard from the other doctors, mostly as the asylum's benefactor – Bruce Wayne, Dr. Whitaker had made a lot of progress with Humphrey, and that, with a little bit of time and a few more interns, he may be released on good behavior soon.

And now, it would seem, she had moved on to the Riddler.

The Riddler…Batman really needed to be more careful around him from now on, knowing his secret identity as he did. The way he had glared at him earlier…it wouldn't take much for a sharp mind to piece it together.

The only part Batman couldn't quite piece together – aside from the questionable suicide of her first patient – was her refusal to take the Scarecrow on as a patient.

Little did Batman know the complete correlation between the two.

When finally he stopped at the end of a darkened hallway – deserted completely, it would seem, of doctors and patients alike – he found Dr. Whitaker standing and staring at a door with only a peephole (currently boarded up) for an opening.

Minutes passed by, and still she stood there with what looked like a magazine clutched in her hands.

Looking down both sides of the hallway, the doctor knocked gently on the door, uttering a single word in a voice hardly stronger than a whisper.

_A name, perhaps._

The doctor pressed her ear to the door and listened for a few moments. She seemed to hear some sort of response because she opened the peephole, sliding it to the side slowly.

The person on the other side – who Batman now concluded had to be the Scarecrow, locked away, as he was, in solitary confinement – seemed to be doing all of the talking now, for the doctor simply stood there, staring through the peephole and saying nothing.

Abruptly, the doctor turned, breaking eye contact with the inmate as she took a seat on a bench beside the door.

Opening the journal, the doctor wetted a finger and thumbed through the pages before settling on an article. Hesitantly at first, she began to read aloud, but soon her voice became clear – _even comfortable._

She read through countless articles, pausing now and again to respond to some sort of comment or question made by the Scarecrow. The man stood at the door the entire time, glasses glinting in the dim light of the hallway, listening carefully to the doctor sitting outside.

Batman, too, listened to the exchange for over an hour before he made his exit, remembering that there was far more important work to be done and a boy – a boy so much like himself – in the car, waiting for him.

* * *

><p>Kit crept into the hallway of Aaron's apartment quietly that night, once again placing her keys in the dish.<p>

This time only the stillness of the night greeted her. She dropped her coat haphazardly on one of the kitchen chairs and glanced at the clock above the stove – 2:17.

_Why did that number always – always – haunt her, especially whenever it involved __**him**__?_

Exhausted and guilty for how Aaron would surely be feeling about the day's events, Kit quickly went about her nightly routine and slipped under the covers beside him.

He said nothing, and Kit assumed he was asleep already. She, herself, lay silently on her side of the bed, staring at nothing – thinking of nothing.

"…You're just like them, sometimes…you know?"

He didn't turn to look at her.

"…_just _like them."

He didn't need to clarify who 'them' was. She already knew…and it made her feel so alone – so very alone.

And for one terrifying moment, Kit was drowning in the cold, black feeling of it – that feeling of being utterly and completely alone in one's thoughts.

Scooting closer to him, Kit put a hand on Aaron's back, clutching the white of his undershirt.

Sighing, he turned and put his arms around her, hugging her close…and for a moment, the dreadful feeling passed.

Little did Kit know, that day she had met the beginnings of a family – the Bat family – a family that would very soon be a part of her own…and it would all start with Bruce Wayne, Gordon's niece, and the boy he had adopted because he reminded him so very much of himself…

* * *

><p><strong>DisclaimerAuthor's Note:**

First:

**THANKS FOR READING!**

**Also please review! Batman has some of the strongest characters ever, and I really would like to know what you think of how I'm writing them.**

I do not own Dick, Bruce, the Joker, Humphrey, the Riddler, either of the Barbara Gordons, Commissioner Gordon, Aaron, Warden Sharp, or the Scarecrow.

Also, just as a note for my fellow hardcore Batman fans – my timeline for this story is pretty out of whack, but like with the Dark Knight and similar reboots, I prefer to mess things up a little so that I can include everyone in their prime, which I think makes the story more fun.

As you probably noticed, I already have the Riddler knowing Batman's secret identity, while I'm starting Scarecrow off as a fairly new villain. But all in all, it shouldn't tamper with much – I'm messing it up to make it more true to the story, if that makes any sense.

The Bat family, however, will definitely follow normal progression. Eventually all the Robins (yes, all five of them) will come into the story. I cannot **wait** to write Damian Wayne. For reals.


	4. Plastic Forks

**Author's Note****: Thank you to all those wonderful people who have followed this story despite the fact it takes me so long to update!** Anyways, I feel like this is a rather short chapter, but Kit will be meeting with the Riddler again in the next one.

**Firespin98** – Thank you! I am so glad you read it, and I hope you continue to like it.

**WantFanFics** – Nothing makes me happier than when someone likes on of my OCs, thank you! She will interact with many more villains in the future.

**Eva Sirico** – Thank you! I will try to update more frequently.

**Violette Archer** – I'm so glad you like it. I'm sorry you had to wait so long for the next update.

**Chaos and Clemency** – Thank you for the lovely review. I am so glad you want to read more. I will try harder to ensure there is more for you to read!

* * *

><p>Kit wondered into work early the next morning after a tormenting night of no sleep.<p>

She had closed her eyes for about an hour or two, but her efforts ended up being futile, considering the time she had left the asylum the night before…and when she had finally woken up, Aaron was already gone.

Rubbing her sleepless eyes, stained with dark rings of exhaustion, Kit made her way through the unwelcoming hallways of Arkham Asylum, passing the night guards on their way out with a short, tired hello.

She could hardly blame Aaron for how he felt, but that didn't make it hurt any less – the way they fought with one another. The way he looked at her, sometimes, as if she were as unstable as the inmates around them.

It was one sleepless night after another, and Kit knew today would be no exception, especially when she walked right into the middle of the scene taking place outside of the Riddler's cell.

The Riddler stood tall at the bars, blue eyes glaring at Dr. Akers, a janitor, and one of the few remaining night guards, although, skinny as the man was, it was having a less impressive effect than he probably would have liked. Flickering from one to the other, his eyes bristled with agitation.

"…dependent personality disorder, a desperate need to prove yourself, and – not to mention – obsessive compulsive," Gretchen finished haughtily as Kit rounded the corner. She peered, disgusted, at the Riddler through her old-fashioned glasses, her mouth pressing into a thin line of disapproval.

Kit wondered, vaguely, what it must be like to have your flaws listed to your face in such a scathing manner – as if every single one of them could and would be held against you.

"Not as obsessive compulsive as you might think, Doctor," the Riddler replied dangerously, clutching the bars tightly in his hands, "else I would feel the need to point out the day-old piece of salad stuck between your central incisors."

Then, after a short pause, he added coolly, "That would be your front teeth."

"I know what they are!" Gretchen snapped, blushing furiously.

Shrugging, the Riddler fixed her with a taunting grin, "_Now_ who has a desperate need to prove themself?"

At this point, Gretchen looked so much like a pot about to boil over that Kit decided to make her intervention. Planting herself subtly between the Riddler and the infuriated Arkham staff, she faced Dr. Akers with a tired smile.

"What's the problem, Gretchen?" she asked, doing her best to be as unassuming as possible. It was difficult trying to keep the peace with the elder doctor.

Thankfully the janitor, who was normally such a reasonable man, spoke up before Gretchen could get a word in edgewise.

"This is the third time this month I've cleaned up his messes, Dr. Whitaker!" the man implored, running a hand through his thin, greying hair, "Do you know how long it takes to scrub off that paint? It's taking away from my other work! I don't know how he's doing it, but –"

"Perhaps a week in solitary confinement will make him see reason," Gretchen spoke up, glaring at the Riddler over Kit's shoulder.

But the Riddler only shrugged, blinking owlishly back at the doctor. He knew it was only a threat – after living in a cell next to the Joker for months on end, solitary confinement would be more of a blessing than a curse.

Kit, however, frowned, thinking of the Scarecrow, still locked away in that dark little room.

The one patient she couldn't help, yet the one she wanted to help the most.

"I'll handle this, Gretchen, if you please," she voiced curtly, sticking her hand in her pocket. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the magazine's smooth pages, left in there from the night before.

"Well, you should," Gretchen replied, unfazed, fixing her piercing gaze on the younger doctor, "He's your patient, after all – _your_ problem to deal with."

"So let me deal with it."

Huffing, Gretchen turned and marched indignantly down the hallway to her office, slamming the door with an angry bang. Kit had hoped the tension would follow Gretchen to her office as it so often did, like a rather persistently annoying rain cloud, but if anything the emotions in the room became thicker, settling heavily on Kit's weary shoulders.

"I really don't have the time for any more of it, Dr. Whitaker," the janitor repeated in hushed tones, wringing his uniform cap in his hands, "I –"

"I'll take care of it," Kit repeated, eyes falling to his cart. His water bucket was filled to the brim with green-stained, murky water.

Nodding reluctantly, the janitor put his hat back on his sweaty head and loaded his cart, pushing it off down the hallway on squeaky wheels.

Thankfully, the night guard, too, gave Kit a small nod and was on his way shortly. He had only been around to accompany Dr. Akers, it would seem, who very rarely visited the patients without some sort of back-up.

And with that, it was only Kit and the Riddler, who each privately breathed their own sigh of relief as the rest of the party moved on.

"I wonder...," Kit began at last, after a short pause, "what she'd say about me."

The Riddler peered curiously at her through the bars, inclining an ear to her.

"Pardon?"

"Dr. Akers," Kit explained, nodding her head towards the old crone's office door, "Somehow, I have the feeling she goes around diagnosing everyone in her head."

"Secretive, too friendly with the patients, careless…," the Riddler rattled off in his best imitation of the good doctor's outlandish accent, ticking the offenses off on his fingers as he went before adding, in a horrified voice, "…and _deviant_."

Kit's yawn effectively suppressed the smile that was in danger of creeping up her face as a guard walked by, nodding in her direction.

"Long night, doctor?" the Riddler continued, gazing intensely at her as he remembered her curious visit from the night before, "What sort of business did you have here last night?"

His face clouded at the thought of it involving Bruce Wayne; she had accompanied him for a short time, after all. Just how well did the two know one another, if at all?

Kit fell into a subdued silence, doing nothing to ease the Riddler's wild suspicions, but she had to think about her answer carefully. She didn't want anyone to know what her true business had been in the asylum last night – or who it had ultimately involved.

"I was visiting a colleague," she said at last, eyes flicking to the stairwell.

"A _businessman_?" the Riddler interrogated swiftly, uttering it as if it were a swear word.

"A psychologist," Kit corrected quietly, "We went to college together."

And with that, she turned to go abruptly, terrified of the memories broiling to the surface of her tired mind.

"I have something planned for our session tomorrow," she called back to the Riddler, stepping backwards in order to face him, "_Behave until then._"

"…I look forward to it."

* * *

><p>The Riddler kept an eye on Kit for the rest of the day, unable to suppress the keen interest in her that had begun to form after their first session together.<p>

At lunch, still, he kept his eyes trained on her, wondering why she was in the same cafeteria as the inmates. The doctors and patients normally ate in different rooms, but for a few months now, Kit had taken to eating her lunch with the former Dr. Harleen Quinzel, now Harley Quinn.

The staff at Arkham would never have assigned Kit directly to Harley, of course, considering the friendship between the two in the past, but she had persuaded the higher-ups that Harley could use some separate counseling for her troubled relationship with the Joker.

Honestly, though, Kit had probably only gotten her way because none of the other doctors wanted to listen to Harley talk about "_Mister J_".

Now, as Kit walked past with her tray, she met eyes with the Riddler and gave him a small nod before settling at a round table set off to the side, meant specifically for she and Harley, who was currently making googoo eyes at the Joker.

Another reason Kit's request was granted so easily: keeping Harley and the Joker apart.

Neatly placing a tissue box in the center of the table (anytime Harley got to talking about the Joker, it was guaranteed the conversation would end in tears), Kit took a seat next to the blonde with a sigh.

"Oh, wow, someone looks exhausted," Harley promptly remarked, finally turning from the Joker, who had, of course, been ignoring her. She glanced down at Kit's tray knowingly, clicking her tongue. "No sack lunch today – had a little fight with Aaron, did ya?"

"Haha…this is supposed to be _your_ couple's counseling, Harley," Kit reminded her.

"Rumour has it you were in late last night," Harley continued slyly, ignoring her attempt to steer their session back on the track it ought to be on. Pointing her flimsy plastic fork in Kit's direction (real silverware, of course, could be used as a weapon), she stared her down hard, waiting for an explanation. "What were you up to?"

And before Kit could even ask who had given her away, she caught a glimpse of the Joker's face, leering eerily in their direction. When he saw her looking, he winked conspiratorially.

'_The clown,' _Kit thought, '_Of course.'_

"…I had work to take care of," she said finally, avoiding the blonde's gaze.

"Uh-huh, not the way I heard it."

"Harley…"

"I'm just saying I heard you was talking with that playboy Bruce Wayne last night, that's all."

"Harley, you are so far off, it's actually a little bit funny," Kit said, eating her (lumpy) mashed potatoes, "Your boyfriend would laugh."

"Well, your boyfriend isn't," Harley retorted with a huff. Her lower lip fell into a little pout, and she crossed her arms childishly.

Nobody ever told her anything.

"…Let's talk about you, Harley," Kit began tiredly, changing the subject, and though Harley would have liked to have argued with her, she could recognize when her friend had been through a rough night.

Sighing, she drew a tissue out of the box in the center of the table and worked up a good cry.

"Well…I-I wasn't going to say anything…but the other day when we left the cafeteria…," Harley sniffed, dabbing at her nose, "Mr. J told me if I kept scarfing down those chili cheese dogs, he'd have to g-get me a new uniform because…b-because…my fat ass wouldn't fit into the old one!"

And with that, Harley buried her face in her arms, sobbing into the ugly orange fabric of her jumpsuit. No longer coherent, she continued to blubber on, pigtails bobbing as she took in large, sloppy, shaky breaths.

Harley grinned into Kit's shoulder, thinking, not for the first time, about what a glorious acting career she could have had if she hadn't turned criminal. Not one person in that cafeteria had ever suspected her tears were anything but real. Except Mr. J, of course. Mr. J knew very well what she looked like when she cried.

So why fake tears? Harley wasn't even sure herself why she made such a spectacle at lunch time, day in and day out, but somehow, she felt like she was paying Kit back, even just a little bit. Crying for her when she wouldn't even cry for herself.

And that was why lunchtime usually ended with Harley sobbing a wet spot into the shoulder of Kit's lab coat, her food beside her untouched. She had a uniform to fit into, after all…and soon.

Her doctor friend wasn't aware of the plans Mr. J had in store, and Harley was torn – torn between obeying Mr. J and helping Kit escape what could ultimately be the end of her.

"Ivy?" Harley heard Kit asking, minutes later, as she shifted ever-so-slightly in the uncomfortable cafeteria chair.

After an irritated sigh and the sound of plastic slamming onto a nearby table, Harley heard the padding of Red's bare footsteps.

Peeling Harley off of Kit, the tall, green woman glared mercilessly at the doctor, who took a few tissues from the box and began dabbing at the large puddle of tears on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Ivy," she said politely, smiling, "How's your daisy doing?"

"Poorly," the woman snapped icily, as if it were Kit's fault it was doing so, "There's no sunlight in this disgusting place."

Discarding the tissues onto her tray along with the rest of her trash, Kit stood to throw it all away, looking thoughtful.

"Hmm…perhaps a heat lamp?"

Ivy paused, surprised to say the very least, but still her face remained unaffected.

"…Perhaps," she allowed, staring cautiously at the strange doctor.

Harley winked at Kit, hoping to encourage her. Dealing with Ivy was always a challenge, even more so when the crazy plant lady was jealous of your friendship with _her_ friend.

"I'll talk to your doctor about it, then," Kit said at last, frightfully aware of Ivy's mistrust.

"Promise?" the woman asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Kit swore, drawing a small 'x' over the area with her finger.

However, unbeknownst to the three women, one of the inmates perked up at the sound of the last word, repeating it gleefully to himself.

"Die? _Die? _Yes, someone should die," he murmured fretfully, "But who?"

"What's that Zsasz, old boy?" the Joker inquired, leaning across the table to hear better.

"Who should die?" Zsasz repeated, scratching down his already scarred arm with his jagged fingernails. "Who should I kill next?"

The usual look crept back into his eyes – that murderous, deadly gleam – as he looked around the cafeteria for his next victim. It was time to kill again.

"Who, who, _who?_"

But before he could properly survey the room, the Joker gripped his bald head and spun him around to face him.

"Now, I don't mean to pry," the clown began politely, drawing Zsasz's attention to him, "but I was wondering, Zsasz, if you take requests?"

"Requests?" Zsasz repeated blankly, trying, in vain, to peer of the Joker's shoulder at the mindless zombies going about their business. Which one would he release from their fleshy prison?

"Yes, requests," the Joker continued cheerfully, patting his tally-marked shoulder, "like…who should you kill first?"

"Kill."

"Yes, kill. Kill is good," he agreed with a yellow smile, "but you know who _really _needs to die?"

"Who?" Zsasz repeated spastically, eyes manic. Fists clenched, face eager, the man looked as if he wanted nothing more than to leap out of his seat and tear someone's heart out, but the Joker leaned forward calmly and whispered in his ear.

"_Kit Whitaker_."

"Kit…Whitaker," Zsasz repeated, following the Joker's gaze to the unassuming Doctor. "Yes…"

As he spoke, Kit bid farewell to Harley and Ivy, placing her tray neatly on one of the towering stacks before exiting the cafeteria. Zsasz watched until every one of her limbs disappeared through the doorway before allowing a twisted grin onto his face.

"Kit Whitaker is going to _die_."

The Joker cackled madly and thumped Zsasz so hard on his back that he dropped his fork while the Riddler glared over at them in annoyance, wondering what the insane clown could possibly be so happy about this time…

* * *

><p><strong>DisclaimerAuthor's Note:**

I do not own the Riddler, Batman, Aaron Cash, Zsasz, the Joker, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, or the Scarecrow.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with the story despite how long it has taken me to update it! Please review if you have the time.

**Also, if there is any Batman character (hero or villain) that you would like to see in this story, feel free to private message me or tell me in a review! I already have a healthy line-up of characters planned, but there might be some I have not thought of. **

**Thanks again! Please R&R!**


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